Bamboo

Bamboo Rakuko Rubin (bio) translated from the Japanese by Jay Rubin It happened on a muggy night near the end of August just before I turned fourteen. I was up late again that night, as if the only way to suck every bit of pleasure out of the three remaining days of my summer vacation was to lie in bed on my stomach until after midnight, flipping through the pages of a movie magazine. Marilyn Monroe was smiling out at me in that unfocused way of hers, with half-open eyes and bright red lips. The next page was filled with a close-up of Elizabeth Taylor. It showed the famous violet eyes, but as bewitching as they were, I was fascinated for no particular reason by the slim hand she held against her cheek, with its incredibly short-clipped fingernails and the absolutely ordinary plain gold wedding band that gleamed on her third finger. I was a little concerned about the unpleasant twinges I'd been feeling in my lower abdomen for a while but assumed they were just from hunger. I slowly raised myself from the bed and started padding down the stairs, figuring I would eat some dinner leftovers or something. Noticing some kind of slippery feeling between my thighs, I stopped partway down the stairs, lifted the front hem of my nightgown, and yanked my panties down. The white cloth was spattered with reddish black stuff, and my inner thighs had streaks that could have been rubbed on them with a writing brush. My head exploded, and my heart started to pound. It was my first period. At last. I stood there frozen, inexplicably stunned and embarrassed. I had to tell my mother. But she had long since gone to bed—it could wait until tomorrow. At least I had to tell my best friend, Keiko, first thing in the morning. Now I'd be liberated from the oh-so-grown-up ribbing I'd endured from her for the past year or more. I hurried down the remaining stairs, crept into the bathroom, and cleaned myself off. Then I put on the sanitary napkin and menstrual panties we had stored there for this event and climbed back upstairs. Sleep was out of the question. A cool draft was coming in through the wide-open window, shifting the shadow of the smoke rising from the mosquito coil back and forth on the wall. I turned out the light on my bedside nightstand and sat down near the window. Would I become anemic if I kept bleeding like this? Would my mother tell my father? Had I joined the ranks of the grown-ups who could calmly [End Page 100] go about cooking red bean rice to celebrate such an embarrassing occasion? As my thoughts flew from one thing to the next, I became aware that the lights were still on in the Matsumoto house next door. From my upstairs room I had a clear view of the Matsumotos' living room at an angle below. The Matsumotos had an especially big lot, but it had become so filled in with bamboo and other plants that the house was all but enveloped by lush vegetation. Only the area outside the living room had been planted in grass to keep the room sunny, which meant there was nothing blocking the view from my window. Pale, thin curtains billowed out through the open patio doors, fluttering in the breeze. Mr. and Mrs. Matsumoto were still up at this late hour, drinking tea. Their movements took place within the square frame of the patio doors as if in a silent film. I think I went on staring at them for a very long time. I could see they were laughing a lot. What could be so funny? I wondered. In addition to their delighted smiles, their hands kept moving in all directions. They kept touching each other—on the face, or an arm, or an elbow—in ways I could never imagine my parents doing. They were thoroughly enjoying each other's company, their closeness almost palpable. I felt as if I were sharing secrets with them. If I had been...